- Editor’s Note: The Insider is a recurring entertainment feature built around publicly available information, informed analysis and educated speculation. It does not claim access to confidential sources inside the Tennessee basketball program, nor should any predictions be interpreted as factual reporting of non-public information.
I got the text Tuesday morning.
“It’s 7.”
I’m pretty sure that was the whole thing.
I had a Starbucks grande in one hand and trying to unlock my driver’s side door with the other when I got the notification. I opened it, I hit something, and poof; whatever the message said disappeared like a first half lead at Florida.
Deleted. Gone.
I immediately texted my source.
“7 what?”
No reply.
I waited five minutes.
“Seven what?”
Crickets.
At 9:42 I tried one more time.
“Just need some clarification on 7.”
This time it didn’t even show delivered.
This whole thing was unusual. My guy doesn’t always answer me — okay, he almost never does — but generally that’s because he says I ask too many questions. At least that’s what he told me. Several times.
I opened my notebook and wrote “7″ at the top of a crisp new page.
I circled it while bearing down hard with my pencil.
This was going to require some work.
My first thought was Food City Center concessions. Seven-dollar beer would be news for sure. I made two calls before learning I had absolutely no reason to stick with this theory.
Crossed that one out like fat free dressing on a grocery list.
Then I remembered the Waffle House.
My source and I have conducted sensitive meetings there before. Maybe he was telling me to meet him at 7 a.m. at the Waffle House on Papermill Drive. You didn’t get that from me.
I arrived Wednesday at 6:53.
He wasn’t there.
I waited until 7:40 because sources sometimes run late when they’re trying to shake a tail.
At 7:46 the waitress asked if I was waiting for somebody.
“Um, possibly.”
She walked away.
Good. If it’s not about eggs or the bathroom code, she don’t need to know about it anyway.
Thursday brought another possibility.
I occasionally walk Bert Bertelkamp’s dog for extra money. I’m not ashamed of it. Journalism don’t pay what it used to. At least not to me.
Maybe Bert needed me to move the dog’s evening walk to 7? Oddly my source sometimes conveys messages to me from Bert.
I called him.
“No.”
I asked if he was sure.
“Yes.”
By now I was getting frustrated. “Bert, you know there’s only one reason I walk your little pooch, right?”
“And what’s that?”
“Money.”
“Oh, you’re a real funny guy. Just be here on time tomorrow please, and don’t forget the pooper scooper this time. I don’t have any extra Food City bags.”
“Yeah, sure Bert. See ya tomorrow.”
Crossed that off.
By Friday I had developed seven working theories.
- Seven-man rotation.
- Seven-foot transfer.
- Tennessee ranked seventh in something.
- Barnes planning to play seven guards.
- Seven-dollar beer.
- Waffle House at 7.
- Bert’s dog.
I didn’t particularly believe the seven-guard theory, but you don’t eliminate perfectly good theories just like that.
That’s how stories get missed.
Saturday morning I finally drove past Food City Center.
Nothing.
I don’t know what I expected to see.
Sometimes you have to get eyes on a location.
By Sunday my guy still hadn’t answered. I was starting to think something had happened to him. And half hoping something had.
Then, at approximately 8:16 Sunday night, I stopped at a red light on Kingston Pike.
A gray Nissan Altima pulled up beside me.
BDF.
I knew that plate. Darn right I did.
I rolled down my window.
The passenger window of the Altima came down about three inches.
My source looked straight ahead.
“Dude. Don’t.”
I leaned toward the window. “What does seven mean?”
He side-eyed me. Not in a friendly way.
“What?”
“Seven. You texted me Tuesday, ‘It’s 7.’ What’s seven?”
“You got me mixed up with somebody else, bro.”
The light turned green.
He peeled off like the green flag just dropped at Indy. For a guy wanting to be discreet, he sure burned a lot of loud rubber.
I sat there for a second.
The guy behind me honked.
I followed the Altima.
Not aggressively. Just business. I needed this story, and even more, I just needed to know what in the world 7 meant.
At the next red light I pulled alongside him again.
This time his window came down before mine.
“Bro! Stalk much?!”
“You sent me It’s 7.”
He shook his head.
“No I didn’t.”
“Tuesday morning.”
He stared at me with the same look on his face a waiter has when a table leaves a 4 dollar tip on a $180 check.
The expression went instantly from that to a heavy exhale.
“Oh, for the love of—”
He looked in his rearview mirror.
Then his side mirror.
Then behind him again.
There was a minivan with two car seats.
He leaned toward his window and lowered his voice.
“The Xavier game.”
I froze.
“What about it?”
“It’s at seven.”
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
“Seven p.m.?”
“Dude, when’s the last time we played a game at 7 a.m. that wasn’t in Hawaii? Yes, seven p.m.!”
The light turned green.
“Man I hate being your source, jeez! It’s the Xavier game, for cryin’ out loud. The Xavier game starts at 7!”
The Altima again peeled away.
I sat at the intersection like that guy that falls asleep in the Wendy’s drive thru.
Somebody honked again. Long press.
Of course.
Xavier.
I totally knew that.
Tennessee hosts Xavier at Food City Center on Thursday, Oct. 15, in the Vols’ first exhibition against another team this preseason. And now, after an extensive seven-day investigation involving multiple locations, two surveillance operations, Waffle House, Bert Bertelkamp’s dog and approximately 11 miles of unnecessary driving, I can confirm the game will tip at 7 p.m. ET and stream on SEC Network+.
I’m not going to reveal how I obtained that information.
If there’s one thing I’ve always said, it’s that source protection matters.
But if you see a gray Nissan Altima around Knoxville this week, just leave the guy alone.
He’s under a lot of pressure.
Mostly from me.
My prediction: Tennessee beats Xavier.
I’m still working on the score.
Oh, and I’m trying to find out for real from my guy how much tall boys will cost at TBA this season.
He won’t pick up.
– The Insider (No, really)